


everything is shattering (and it's my mistake)

by plantgirl



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route Spoilers, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Mental Instability, Post-War, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-09-01 00:44:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20249353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantgirl/pseuds/plantgirl
Summary: Byleth feels guilty for many things in life - it is not easy if you are constantly making new mistakes, adding onto the heavy guilt already laying on your shoulders.





	everything is shattering (and it's my mistake)

**Author's Note:**

> this is a small scene taken from a bigger project of mine which i might release once i have finished it.

The bonfire is crackling under the bright light of the Blue Sea moon and Byleth sits on the dry ground next to it, tired eyes glued to the flames. He wants to go to sleep so badly but Claude has not yet returned from the village and Cyril is already fast asleep. He needs to guard their camp in case anybody were to attack them.

The sudden sound of dead leaves rustling behind him alerts him that someone is approaching. Byleth's hand reaches for the dagger on the ground, ready to defend himself. The rest of the weapons are hidden away in Claude's tent, shielded from suspicious eyes - nobody should see that they can wield heroes' relicts, especially not people that could get the wrong ideas and steal them. Byleth often remembers Sylvain's brother when he hears people talk about another stolen relic in hushed voices, scared that anybody might hear (for they might be the ones to blame when word gets around that another demonic beast has been attacking villages and taking the lives of innocent people) - what might have become of Sylvain? Byleth has not heard of him since the battle of Eagle and Lion (too many students died that day - especially Bernadetta's words will haunt Byleth for millenia, and it was not even him or any of his students that killed her; he'll forever have to live with the guilt of her death although it was not even his doing - what if Sylvain died that way, too, and was left as just another nameless body?).

He slowly raises to his feet, careful not to make a sound. There is a shadowy figure sneaking into their small makeshift camp and Byleth is ready to attack. He pulls the hood of his dark cloak over his head to conceal his face from the intruder - he does not need them to know who he is for it might be dangerous information, especially in a different land.

Swiftly he hides himself in the shadows of a nearby tree and waits for the attacker to come closer. His fingers are trembling from the adrenaline rush (how long has it been since he last allowed himself to hold a weapon in his hands?) and he can hear his own blood rushing in his ears. He has almost forgotten how it feels to hold a dagger in defense, but years and years of being a mercenary are hard to erase from his brain and his body naturally melts further into the shadows to conceal himself.

Footsteps are drawing nearer - feathery and fast paced, not quite running but rather quick walking. He feels his instincts take over (when did he turn into such an animal, or has he always been one?) and he jolts forward, right into the intruder. The dagger draws smoothly into flesh like through Lysithea's buttery tea bread and a wave of strange satisfaction rolls over Byleth - he has not done this in so long, has forbidden himself from fighting but this right now is pure bliss for him. Or it is until he hears the pained groan from the intruder and he can finally see clearly again with his eyes not clouded by his instincts.

It is Claude who is standing in front of him, the dagger buried deep in his side with his face distorted by a pained expression. He sinks to the ground, clutching the wound that was just left there. Byleth stops breathing for a second before he crouches down next to Claude. His hands are shaking and he cannot control himself (he is a monster), his whole body is trembling and his vision goes black (such an animal).

It is Claude's voice that brings him back to reality a few seconds later, low but still so soft (Byleth does not deserve _soft_, he should be treated like the monster he is), "Byleth, I'm here, calm down."

Byleth shakes his head to get his mind in order again and registers the situation at hand. Quickly he rushes to get a potion from his tent to treat the injury. Claude gulps it down in one sip - he must be in a lot of pain, Byleth assumes (he could have killed him, could have killed himself that way).

He helps Claude take off his now bloody cotton shirt (had he just worn his leather armor like he does every other day it would not have been like this) and tends to treat the now already partly healed wound. His eyes, however, are glued to the silvery lines that slither across Claude's skin, almost looking like they are moving.

Swirls of silver wrap around his left biceps and Byleth would call them a work of art did he not know they were left there by a dark magic spell. Another scar, sharp and smooth, runs along his ribcage all the way down to his hips where it ends in a big blotch of red, swollen tissue - the mark that Byleth just left there (he will never forget his sin - not this one, at least). Multiple smaller scars, varying between different shades of silver and red, litter the rest of Claude's body - stomach, chest, shoulders, arms, face, everywhere where his tan skin is exposed to the cool night breeze.

Byleth's own body feels bare compared to this - not a single scar is visible on his own skin. Something about being a vessel to Sothis leaves him with no single trace of ever having been in a battle, let alone in a war. It makes him feel guilty; everybody around him is marked by the war, has horrible memories connected to the scars and injuries they received, and Byleth? He has not a single scratch to show, his skin is still smooth as marble with no imperfections, and it feels _wrong_.

His fingers brush along the marks of magic on Claude's arm, tracing the light swirls all over his tan skin. Claude shudders under the touch, but Byleth is not entirely sure if it is because of him or the cold air that grazes his overheated skin.

"This happened when we were fighting in Enbarr, right?", he asks quietly (praying that Claude might tell him he is wrong), "Hubert must have hit you with something quite powerful."

Claude nods silently. Byleth is afraid he might have said something wrong, but there is something soft in Claude's eyes, something he would not have expected given the topic.

"It is not your fault, you know?", he then says gently and covers Byleth's hand on his arm with his own, drawing small circles onto the back of his hand. It feels reassuring, somehow, but there still is the crushing weight of guilt and shame laying on his shoulders. He directed Claude's moves in that battle - and possibly most of the others the remaining scars stem from - and he should have been more careful, should have watched out more. And still, he thinks, these are only the scars Claude bears. What about the others? He almost had Hilda killed several times - he had to turn back time several times to keep her alive and was so afraid of not being able to save her after all - and all the others as well. Lysithea is bearing a thick, jagged scar on her collarbone from where he had not been quick enough to cover for her and she got stabbed with a dagger right through her delicate bones, Ignatz's left cheek is scarred from a burn that took ages to heal, Raphael's nose is crooked from where it had been broken several times - all this could have been prevented from happening if Byleth had been more careful, had taken better care of his students (he could have killed them, all of them), and now he is sitting here under the clear night sky, tracing his errors on Claude's skin while he himself has not a single mark on his skin to make up for it, not a single trace of his mistakes affecting himself.

His hand cramps under Claude's touch, his head swimming with blame and regret for all the pain he has brought over his students. He barely registers the touch on his shoulder, barely registers that Claude has turned to now face him directly and is whispering reassuring words into his hair while carefully pulling him close to his chest - his vision is blurry from the tears welling up in his eyes and his whole body is going numb. It is the first time he is crying since Jeralt's death (it is still his fault, he could have saved him, somehow, if he had just defeated Solon earlier), and it feels like all the pain he has bottled up over all those years has finally caught up to him and is crashing down over him like a wave, burying him underneath it.

Claude's hand is carding through Byleth's hair while the other is drawing circles into the skin on his back, holding him close. Neither of them say anything for a while and the silence is only broken by Byleth's quiet sobs (he is weak, so _weak_).

"Let's go to sleep," Claude whispers into the night - it is dark, the fire has gone out some time ago. Byleth wants to protest (he does not deserve this, he does not deserve Claude) but his eyelids are heavy and his body is crying out for some rest.

"It will be better tomorrow."

(It won't be better, but maybe the guilt has not eaten him alive until then and he gets another chance - not that he deserves any more.)


End file.
